


Inheritance Side Stories

by DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), TheHuggamugCafe



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Breathplay, Character Study, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Glove Kink, Heavily Implied Murder, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Leather Kink, Light Knifeplay, Light breathplay, Mama!Reader, Masochism, Memories, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Lives, Possessive Behavior, Restraints, Sadism, Set during the early 1920’s, Temperature Play, Yandere Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), husband/wife, threats to reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafrenze/pseuds/DragonsInkwell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: It’s better to be caged by a devil you do know rather than a devil you don’t know, isn’t it?
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	1. Prisoner -Teaser- (1/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Holy _shit_ , I am giddy as fuck to finally be able to toss teasing sneak peeks of these musings at y’all!
> 
> Please let me know what you think of these.
> 
> Also, this collection will be periodically updated. Do note that these are merely to tide you lovely readers over until the _Inheritance Side Stories_ series is posted; these are teasers, nothing more.
> 
> A big and most welcomed shout-out goes to my **_deer_** friend, DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), for giggling about this collection with yours truly!
> 
> Lastly, I do not own the name Alistair McCarthy. All of the credit and none of the blame goes to BambinaMio, author of The Man Who Put New Orleans To Rest.
> 
> Deep sleep = death.

_“I’m leaving.”_

Your voice haunts you, streaking through your mind like a knife cuts the air; it’s quick, painless. Almost. It would have been free of agony if not for the fire in your core, trickling liquid heat into the crotch of your panties; how ironic that you chose your favourite pair. The smooth leather touching your abdomen, the contrast between warmth and the sweat making your skin shine under the gentle kiss of moonlight, all of that doesn’t go unnoticed by you nor him. You suck in a breath past your dry mouth; it’s expelled in a shaky exhale.

_“I’ve been patient. I’ve never complained, not once! How long are you planning on making me wait? Until I’m old and grey?”_

The cool draft whispers over your exposed skin, rousing a shiver from you. It, the shudder, makes Alistair’s grin twitch, but in morbid approval; he’s pleased. The malicious twinkle in his eyes tells you as much.

“That was quite a delightful treat, darling. Tell me…” His smile tightens; his irises shift, darkly. The hand locked around your throat tightens its grip, gently. The leather fingers and the gloved palm is merely a ghost of a touch, but it still makes the little hairs on your nape stand up in fear; a warning. “Would you have allowed another man to see that reaction?”

Logically, you should say that no, you didn’t mean to say what you said.

_“If you can’t— **won’t** —give me that, then I’ll find someone who will, Alistair.”_

Your silence makes the vice close in, and you can’t stop yourself from hitching in a breath. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll do next. And no sooner does a prick of curiosity plague your racing mind, you feel it. A soft dance of leather on your pelvis and it’s dropping lower, lower, _lower_ , _**lower**_ —

“Ah!”

The man above you simpers cruelly, watching as you breathe a moan that ends with something that’s suspiciously close to his name. The fingers dip to the waistband of your skirt, teasing the buttons they find at the top. _Pop_. Your eyes widen. _Pop_. Your heart is beating faster now, fluttering in your breast.

“My, and that was quite a purr from you, wasn’t it, kitten?” He laughs; he sounds cheerful. But you know, oh, you know him better than that; he’s as happily callous as ever, delighting in your aroused discomfort. The hearty chuckles bounce off of the walls, echoing in the silence that follows his question. He’s quick to voice another. “Have my ears deceived me or did you say my name just now, love?”

“N-No… I… I didn’t—” _Pop_. The third and final button of your skirt being undone silences you, robs the ability of speech just as you’re about to deny it, deny _him_ ; a flash of white can be seen, lace prettily trimming the edges. “Oh, but I think you’re lying. I think you _did_ say my name; you’re too much of a wallflower to admit it, is that it?” The loving kiss of a cool breeze tickles your pelvis, dancing an airy waltz down your skin, shimmering with perspiration. The smile curling his lips is now baring his teeth to you and moonlight blesses his spectacles with a silver-y shine. “That’s how it should be, isn’t that right? No one’s name but _mine_ should leave your lips, especially in the way it just did.”

You can’t take it anymore. His possessive voice, his gentle and insistent touches, the darkness in his eyes, and the words of hollow affection leaving his lips, forever curled to a smile… Everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing, it makes you want to bawl your eyes out. You want to curl up into a ball and cry.

Where was all of this meaningless, cold warmth on your wedding night? Where was this nonexistent care for you before? Why couldn’t you have a normal, loving husband like your coworkers, like your neighbours? Why did he have to take such a morbid interest in you on that night in the alley?

The night when he cornered you with a chilling smile that was as dangerous, that was as sharp as the knife he had pressed to your neck.

Even now you can still remember what he said to you on that night…

_“Shh, petite lapine. Be a dear and settle down for me, won’t you?”_

Naturally, you had refused to do as you were told. You refused to listen to the man who would most likely be the one to kick you off this mortal coil, the man who would slit your throat ear to ear. Your defiance on that night in the alley, concealed in silhouette that was broken only by the dim glare of moonlight, and beneath a nocturnal horizon filled with countless twinkling stars, showed in several ways: how you kicked, thrashed about, and tried to scream despite the gloved palm clapped to your mouth, ensuring no calls for help left your throat as hot tears filled your eyes.

 _Why_ did you have to react the way you had back then, when the devilish hunter gripped your throat in a gentle vice of leather as he hissed words in your ear? _Why_ did he have to sound so alluring in that moment, his voice sounding so sweet, so charming, but so dangerous? _Why_ didn’t you stop yourself from thinking that even though he will certainly kill you, his voice was perhaps the most beautiful thing you had ever heard?

 _“Now, now… Must I repeat myself? I believe I asked you to settle down, didn’t I, darling? Otherwise… I will make you settle down_ _**permanently.**_ _”_

Why couldn’t he have done you a favour and simply sent you packing into the deep sleep, right there and then?

“Enough… That’s enough, Alistair! You’ve made your point! Stop this wacky nonsense and just let me go!”

He blinks, tilting his head. The smile is still there of course, it’s still pulling on his lips, and he’s still baring his teeth to you, but it seems strained, forced; his smile is full of tension, making you think of a piece of string waiting to snap as it’s pulled taut. “I’ve made my point, have I? But… Have _you_ learned your lesson?”

The chilly draft in the basement isn’t the only cause for why you shiver, why you exhale sharply this time. It’s also thanks to the ghostly caress of his leathery digits, his gloved finger tips teasing the edge of your underwear. He hums, sounding bored, but his stare remains on you, watching you as a forefinger grips a hold of your lace panties, drawing it back. The light brush of Alistair’s leathery fingers over your flesh, flushed with a dust of colour, the hint of icy air hitting your heated skin, and the repetitive hit of warmth fanning your face as he laughs…

It’s all too much, too much, _too much_ , _**too much**_ —

“You say that my point has been made clear, but is that true? I think…” Your legs shake, your skin crawling with the sensation of gooseflesh; your body is already betraying you as you unconsciously spread your thighs apart, showcasing what’s between them to your husband’s leer. He sneers, seeing the way a lone line of your juices trails a path down your skin.

“I think that your indecent display is more sincere. I’m far more inclined to believe _this_ …” He pauses, falling silent as his hand skims the hot, quaking flesh of your pelvis with the softest touch of leather that’s, ha, humanly possible. Immediately your slick cunt reacts, clenching around nothing but its own natural wetness and brisk air. For a single and terrible moment, you can’t stop yourself from wondering how the leather fingers stroking your pelvis would feel, stuffing your warm and wet walls without a shred of mercy, and not caressing your skin like it’s his property. “Then to place faith in anything you say.”

“Go… Gh… Go…” Your voice is soft. You’re speaking above the octave of a whisper; you can wheeze the words out past your lips, _barely_.

“Hmm? What was that, _chérie_?” A repetitive hit of air warms your scowling visage; he’s laughing. Of course he’s laughing, and of course he’s laughing at you; you’re entertaining him, aren’t you? The tip of a leather clad finger tickles underneath your chin, dancing a gentle mockery of a waltz on the skin it finds there. “You’ll have to speak more clearly; I can’t quite hear you!” He cackles in your face, cheeks lit with an angry flush and teeth bared like a rabid animal, one last time before the hand wrapped around your throat in a soft vice of leather disappears.

He straightens himself, brushing the sleeves of his shirt and dusting off the front of his vest, before he smiles down at you once more and then he pivots on his heels. The soles of his shoes click over the bare concrete floor; his footsteps sound loud, unnecessarily loud, in the basement. The noise ricochets off of the walls, making your ears ring and filling your mind with a sensation akin to a hand groping around the gooey, grey matter of your brain. He stops after standing a few feet away from you. His back is facing you and his hands are clasped behind his back, but you know that he’s as attentive as a cat lurking about its den, looking for a mouse to play with, to take its time eating said rodent.

_**This is the only true value you have to him; you know that much at least, don’t you? What other use does a plaything have to its owner, after all?** _

The sneering tone of your darkest thoughts is enough to set your jaw, to grit your teeth, baring them as you point a glare on Alistair’s grinning mask, even though it—his smiling face—is staring at you over his shoulder.

“Go to hell,” you hiss, all but spitting the acidic words in his direction.

Your words hang in the chilly air, like a thick mist that stubbornly refuses to leave. All is silent; all you can hear is the occasional creak, the odd groan here and there. Despite the stagnant atmosphere, there is a _electric charge_ of sorts in the basement.

In the way this sensation crawls across you, you can’t help but betray a shiver; a matching exhale tumbles from your lips. It’s almost like static…

You watch, resolve wilting, as your husband turns about-face, slowly. The smile still pulls at his face, but there’s a clear cut tension possessing it. You see it in the way Alistair tilts his head off to the side, studying you at an angle as his grin is practically fiendish now.

“Care to repeat yourself, darling? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”


	2. Caught -Teaser-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I won’t let you go.”_
> 
> A frightening promise to hear from Alastor, to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, _deer_ readers, am I ever feeling sadistic right now!
> 
> Do enjoy this terrifying teaser!

His eyes narrow, grin stretching to its limit, twitching sporadically at the edges, curling maliciously.

“You want me to _release you_?”

He echoes the request—the _demand_ — you just hissed, spat at him. A pause. The reprieve of silence that follows him is the most frightening thing you can possibly imagine. Honestly, a part of you wishes to hear his static-laced voice; you’d prefer letting his words grate your nerves than silence. The quiet is unnerving, leaving you feeling on edge. Hilarious, considering the man—the _Overlord_ —before you, the demon who has a firm, iron-clad grip on your wrist.

Alastor’s hold on your wrist is harsh, painful, and for a moment you can’t help but wonder if he’ll ignore the pained winces that pull at your face, the pitiful whimpers that lace your angry, huffy voice. A foolish question to ask yourself, to be curious about; you know him well enough that he’ll ignore your cries of agony, your pleas for mercy falling on mostly deaf ears. Then you wonder if he’ll fracture or worse, break your wrist. Yet another idiotic question to ask yourself. He can do it; he _will_ do it if you test him, if you test his patience.

The repetitive dance of heat hitting your face tells you something: he’s laughing.

“I haven’t seen you since you left me…”

And now _you_ want to laugh at _him_. It sounds like he’s accusing you of dying, of leaving him without his permission! It’s like he blames you for not living long enough to let him kill you, just as he promised you he would. It’s not like you had a say in when you died, much less in the way you had perished.

“But now that I’ve found you after searching for you for as long as I have, you want me to _let you go_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” You say, hissing out the word through grit teeth and a set jaw, staring up at him. You refuse to cower; you refuse to back down from him. _Those days are over!_ you silently tell yourself. _I don’t have to be at his beck and call anymore!_ “That’s exactly what I want, Alastor— _ah!_ ”

A throaty cackle is the response he gives you.

“It’s adorable how you think that.”

The way he speaks is enough to let a thought cross your mind. A thought that is as terrible as it is terrifying: does he know what you were thinking just now? By itself the mere possibility is enough to rouse a shiver from you; the shudder possesses your shoulders, worming an icy trail down your spine.

“But I think that you have _no say here_ , doll. You _never did_. You spoke when I said so; you moved however I wished for you to move; you did _what_ I asked, _when_ I asked.”

For emphasis, he increases the pressure his hand has on your wrist as he talks. To you, his voice is very much reminiscent of the manner he addressed you as he had in life: sweet, sickeningly saccharine, but there is very real danger in his words. You hear it; you sense it. You know it and he knows that you know, and he lets you know of it; you are on very thin ice right now. One false move and you risk drowning in icy water. Say the wrong thing, make the wrong move, and you will be dragged into a never-ending abyss…

“That’s in the past; _we’re_ in the past.” And deep down inside, a part of you regrets saying that when Alastor, ignoring the way your back curves, ignoring the way you hiss out a drawn-out groan of pain, simply increases the vice his clawed fingers have on your wrist. “We’re not married; I’m not bound to you, by matrimony or otherwise. I am _not_ yours anymore!”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Alastor retorts, eyes aglow with crimson, leering down at you as his neck cracks to the left; a sharp creak is heard when he does this. “You are still very much _mine_. You made a vow, did you not? You promised _“forever”_ to me, isn’t that right?”

You don’t remember. You don’t remember. You don’t remember promising him anything, never mind assuring that you’d spend _“forever”_ with him—but oh, how could you allow yourself to forget that special day? How could you forget the day every woman has dreamt of since she was a little girl, after all? How could you forget your wedding day?

A laugh that is far too high to be a mere laugh leaves him; it shakes his devilish form hard, so hard you expect him to be all but _vibrating_. He is laughing that hard before he breathes, inhaling as that silly cane affixed with a microphone at the top appears. He twirls it and through it comes the echo of a spectre, the words of the ghost—it’s _your_ voice—filtering through the air like electricity.

_“Yes, Alistair. Now and forever. That is my vow to you.”_

“And _yet_ …”

You watch, terrified, as there’s a horrid shift to his eyes. He blinks, and when his eyes flutter open, his pupils and irises have merged; they have shrunk and thinned, resembling radio dials as he grins down at you.

“Knowing that you vowed _“forever”_ to me, you _dare_ ask me to release you? To let you _go_?”

He starts to laugh again; it sounds cheerful, so nauseatingly chipper. But you know better, you know him better than that, if the way the little hairs on your nape rise, standing at full and frightened attention, tells you anything.

_“My poor, sweet little fawn…”_

Mockery drips past his grinning lips like poison pouring from a vat. He tilts his head back, cackling as his shadow makes a brief appearance. You watch with frightened wariness in your eyes, watching how it slinks along the wall, looking back at you with glowing eyes and a terrible mimicry of Alastor’s smile curling its lips. It laughs at you along with its master, edging closer, _closer_ , **_closer_** —

 _“You know **nothing** , darling_.”

Static rears its ugly head in Alastor’s voice as his head tilts back, complemented by a sickening crack from his neck. There’s a glitch as your surroundings hiss, flickering with noise that reminds you of a chorus of out of whack television sets, of radios screeching with static. Your ears are ringing, your eyes are the size of dinner plates, and your crown is breaking out in a sweat. You’re scared. You’re frightened. For the first time in years, you’re absolutely terrified. You swallow; the gulp is thick. It sticks to your esophagus, lodged at the back of your throat like a glob of glue.

_“How foolish of you to forget… You are **mine** because I **chose you** to be **mine**. No matter where it is, be it on Earth or even in Hell, that has **not** changed.It **will not** change. I won’t let it change. I won’t let you go.”_


	3. Prisoner -Teaser- (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Not to worry, my dear. I’ll take good care of you.”_
> 
> His smile is the last thing you can recall seeing before you blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnn, may I just say something?
> 
> Everyone who’s read, left a kudos, a comment, or even bookmarked this collection is a blessed soul.
> 
> I can’t thank you all enough for being interested in _Side Stories_ , even if they’re just teasers for now.
> 
> Thanks so much for finding the fruits of my giggle sessions with my friend enticing. If you, dear reader, haven’t checked out DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), I encourage you to do so.
> 
> Alright, I’ve ranted enough. Onward to the delicious spooks!
> 
> 1920s slang and their meanings:
> 
> A bearcat is a hot-blooded, vivacious, or a feisty woman.
> 
> Boob means “idiot; moron.”
> 
> French terms (including one Cajun French word):
> 
>  _Mon ange_ means “my angel.”
> 
>  _Lapine_ means “rabbit; doe.”
> 
>  _Chér_ means “dear.” (Not so endearing when Alistair calls Reader that, eh?)

“First, before I answer your questions, answer mine. I have only one curiosity for you to satiate. Tell me… How did you feel when you woke up?”

You’re puzzled, and it shows on your face; your mood shines in your eyes, cloudy with confusion. You blink slowly, sluggishly. Your thoughts are incoherent; your brain is swimming in a fog of bewilderment. What does he mean by that? You think, or rather you try to think. Clear and precise thoughts are far and few in-between. All you can do is exhale slowly, heavily; why do you feel so tired? You can’t figure it out—you can’t figure _him_ out. Is this some sick joke he’s playing on you? A twisted validation? A malicious stroke of his inflated ego?

He’s smiling now, not surprising you in the least. It would have taken you aback to not see him smiling, to see it faltering, to see him frowning. White breaks the gloomy darkness in the basement as he bares his teeth to you, mimicking the perfect imitation of a smile, but the smile of your husband is grossly macabre. It’s too inhuman, too full of teeth. It’s like the Devil himself is smiling down at you right now…

Such a thought is chilling enough to rouse a shiver from you, and the icy draft whispering across you where you’re sitting, on the concrete floor and your back pressed against the wall, isn’t helping you at all.

He’s leaned in close to you now, so close you can see the way the moonlight’s cold glare makes his glasses and irises gleam like…

_Like a knife._

You swallow, banishing the thought from your mind. Alistair’s even closer now; a few inches is all that separates his lips from yours. A finger clad in black trails down your face.

“How exquisite,” he mutters, more to himself than addressing you.

You’re. Right. Here.

Seething, you set your jaw as you lean back from his tooth-filled grin. “In case you’re unaware, my dear _husband_ , I’ve just woken up on the floor of our basement, and I expect answers from you. _Now_.”

He tilts his head; brunet bangs brush his crown. The eternal smile twitches, showing his disapproval. “I’m aware; I carried you down here from upstairs. Your tone is a bit sharp for my liking, _chér_.”

“You… carried me down here? From the kitchen?” you echo, stupefied. There’s a low, muddled drawl to your words, speaking volumes of your drugged state. Words roll off of your tongue that feels strangely dry, slowly, awkwardly, signalling of your condition.

“Yes,” he says, clearly amused because of your slurred words. “I believe I just told you I did? Do try to stay on point, darling.”

Goddamn him, that sounds almost like he’s _mocking_ you. This bastard _is_ mocking you, isn’t he? Oh, you’re sorely tempted to hit him, but you manage to push the urge to act out against him down, barely. You want to scream. You _should_ scream, but who is going to hear you from down here, and from this deep in the woods?

“Alistair, you have five seconds to explain yourself! If this is your idea of a joke—”

A finger clad in leather is pressed to your lips, silencing your irate tirade. “Oh, it’s no joke, my little doe. Jokes are funny. You do not see or hear me laughing, do you?” He’s surprisingly serious, sincere; his voice is even, but grim in tone. “At any rate…” He smiles thinly, eyebrow cocked. “Aren’t you being a _bit_ bossy? Considering the circumstances, do you truly think you’re in any position to make demands? To ask me of anything?”

The finger trails down your lips, down your skin, tracing the curve of your jaw as your mouth opens. “I’ll scream. I swear to God Himself I will; you _know_ I will. Is that something you want to risk? Someone seeing New Orleans’ most liked and popular radio host keeping his wife in their basement, _shackled_?”

_You boob, he’ll call you out on that halfhearted bluff!_

He laughs in your face, proving your suspicions to be legitimate. “I know that you _can_ and I know that you _will_ scream, but no one will hear you. And you can cry out for your nonexistent God all you want; I could use a good laugh. So go ahead, scream for help. I won’t stop you.”

You say nothing; your response is a lethargic blink, lips pursed to a tight frown. He’s caught your fib and called you out on it. Damn him.

“Well? I’m waiting, _lapine_ ,” Alistair says, speaking in a slow drawl, carefully enunciating the French nickname he’s reserved specifically for you; he’s clearly teasing you.

He’s no different than those neighbourhood boys who used to bully you when you were younger. Even the way he’s talking to you now reminds you so much, too much for your liking, of the malicious tone that they had whenever they spoke to you. The way he’s acting right now is too reminiscent of how they treated you when they cornered you alone…

“I quite like this expression on you… Seeing you so helpless is like nothing else I have ever seen.”

You blink, sluggish. Aside from the way he’s thoroughly enjoying the state you’re in right now, there’s a vague undertone possessing his speech. He sounds almost affectionate, albeit a mockery of it… But you notice too late of a light pinch that’s irritating your chin. The grip his forefinger and thumb have on your jaw tightens; it is enough to rip a gasp from your throat as he forces you to look at him, slowly.

“Who, _mon ange_ , taught you to be such a bearcat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you may get a second hearty teaser from me, if a _Side Stories_ musing is lengthy enough for it to be served, of course.
> 
> I apologize if this second bit isn’t as long as you were hoping.
> 
> Fortunately, one (or is it two teasers now?) more teaser is just about done. I will definitely have one of them posted sometime tonight, so be sure to look forward to it!


	4. Birthday -Teaser-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know your weak points, my sweet little fawn.”_
> 
> You’re not sure what you hate more.
> 
> That he’s like a ghost, relentlessly haunting you.
> 
> Or that he never leaves because you don’t want him to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the mayhem begins, I must be honest with you, dear reader: I have no love for the mommy/daddy kink. Mommy is an instant _no_ , and a _no thank you_ at that; I can, however, stomach daddy to a point. Enough to be okay with mentioning it; perhaps it will help me feel more comfortable writing it? Time will tell I suppose, but I will only write/mention this kink once in a blue moon.
> 
> Important: Reader is a bat demon in this collection of teasers. 
> 
> Two of her abilities in this teaser’s official release will include:
> 
> Full Demon Form: Reader is able to shift between a more terrifying, stronger form and her default appearance with ease. 
> 
> Vampirism: By drinking the blood of another demon, Reader is able to regenerate any wounds she may be suffering from. Depending on the severity of her injuries, any amount from a few mouthfuls to draining the other demon dry will be necessary for her to completely recover. (Of course, this ability is _also_ utilized whenever she wishes someone to suffer, but she goes to such lengths only when it is necessary.)
> 
> Lastly, cheaters are glasses.

“You want me to fuck you silly on this bed, baby?” He’s clearly mocking you, teasing you, and you hate him even _more_ now. Which is certainly saying something, considering you wanted nothing more than to cut off his hand for touching you, for skimming his fingers, his palm up your thigh. The memory of how he touched you, where your leggings didn’t shield your flesh, downstairs in the bar threatens to let a repulsive shudder possess you. “Want me to mark you, make you mine?”

His breath fans the side of your face, and it takes everything you have not to throw up at the smell. It’s hot and rancid, like airy acid is being shoved up into your nose when you inhale, shakily. Has this miserable, disgusting demon never heard of a toothbrush? Or toothpaste for that matter? Still, you have a part to play and you will play it, whether you wish to or not. You will play this foolish demon like a musical instrument; you will put a third eye in his ugly face. Worse comes to worse, you can always drain this idiot totally dry of blood, and _then_ shoot him with a holy bullet.

Because it’s your little angel’s birthday today and you will not let some nobody, some nameless moron mess your plans up. You promised your child a birthday to remember and you will fulfill that maternal vow, even if it’s her special day in Hell. “Yes, daddy,” you say, feigning a pleased mewl. It, the moan, rolls off of your tongue like a piece of honeyed candy, soft and sickly saccharine. “ _Please_.”

The moment you feel lips pepper the inside of your thighs with sloppy kisses, his tongue licking your skin like a dog laps at its water bowl, messy and quick, and his teeth harshly nipping on your flesh like he was biting through a tender piece of venison, savouring its juices, your mind drifts away.

Your body remains in the present, but your brain floats back to the past. You’re not in a seedy room on the second floor of a run-down joint that, honestly, has definitely seen slightly better years. You’re not inhaling air that stinks of cigarette smoke. You’re not on a bed that reeks of booze, sweat, and Lucifer knows what else. You’re not lying as still as a doll, letting some nameless demon messily eat you out like he’s starving, and you’re a slice of dripping meat on a dinner plate.

In your mind you’re back to dwelling in a cabin in the woods. The feeling of cool sheets that have been halfheartedly washed disappears from your back, the lumpy pillow your head rests against vanishing along with it. For a moment and only a moment, you feel as though you’re floating in a void of nothingness before, finally, memories of your past come back to hit you with the full-force of a freight train.

Memories of when you had been a living, breathing human.

_It was raining that evening…_

That is the thought that trickles through your mind as you close your eyes, slowly. Your chest rises, falling in sync with your shoulders as you focus on breathing. You think you hear the nameless demon asking you to shift your hips, to spread your legs a bit more, but you do so regardless. As you look through your eyelashes, and when you see his head dipping back to between your thighs, you bury yourself into the past like you’ll cocoon your daughter and yourself in blankets, seeking warmth and enjoying each other’s company during a cold, rainy day.

_The sound of rain thundering against the windows, and hitting the cabin’s roof with harsh musical notes, was loud on that night. It was a clear contrast to the soft crackles coming from the hearth, where you laid on a single bed sheet, naked as the day you were born. The reddish-orange flames gave your still body an eerie glow; a play of light and shadow was conducted over your bare flesh._

_You shifted to make yourself more comfortable, but the moment a ghostly caress of leather touched your stomach, slowly, was the second your body stilled. However, that wasn’t the only sensation to cause you to freeze. Tension shot through you like an electric current as the cold kiss of a knife ghosted over the skin of your stomach, followed up only by the barely-there touch of heat._

_You remembered how he had lightly heated the edges and tip of his favourite knife, courtesy of the hearth aglow with a popping fire. The very same knife he was using to torment you. A laugh that was as light as air but carried the darkest of intent was heard, making you stare up into the face of your spouse: Alistair McCarthy._

_“Nervous, darling?” You didn’t see a point in lying to him, so you nodded. He leaned down, close enough so that his lips were inches from touching yours. “Good,” he purred, clearly pleased by your silent response. “As you should be. Why, I could hurt you if I’m not careful! Wouldn’t that be a shame? Ah-ha-ha-ha!”_

_He laughed; it sounded as sweet as wind chimes moving in a summer breeze. You weren’t fooled; he was a dangerous man. He knew that you knew he could kill you at any time he wished to end your life, and there wasn’t a thing you could do to spare yourself from the curtain closing as your finale concluded, in a display of sadistic sport. You swallowed, unconsciously shifting as though you meant to get away from him. “Mm, now… What are you doing? You wouldn’t be trying to shy away from me, would you, petite lapine?”_

_When you shook your head, a clear but silent “no,” he was quick to cackle. “Wonderful, my dear. It’s such a pointless thing to do, isn’t it? After all… I know your weak points, my sweet little fawn.”_

_You took in a breath, slowly, deeply, taking in the scent of coffee, rain, and a teasing hint of his cologne, breathing it into your lungs like it was a drug you just injected into your veins, and you were languidly riding the high. The aroma was polished off with a slight taste of copper—and for a moment, you could swear that you tasted the crimson liquid on your tongue._

_Then you remembered an important detail: the lingering taste of blood on your tongue was no illusion; it was no figment of your imagination running away on you. He had stuck a finger past your lips; in fact, you remembered the smooth leather and cool blood contradicted each other. And yet at the same time, the taste of leather was complimented by the hit of warm copper that morbidly tickled your taste buds._

_“Can you taste it, ma biche? The pain? The despair? Death leaves such a pleasant aftertaste on the tongue, doesn’t it?” Warm air hit your blushing bride visage as he laughed, staring up at him with doe eyes; in the dim light of the crackling hearth, they shined with both terror and excitement. “You will be no different once I’ve had my fill of you. You are my prey after all, isn’t that right?”_

_“No.” You shook your head, weakly, eyes never leaving the one staring at you from between your legs. The feeling of leathery fingers stroking your bare flesh made hot needles stab the curve of your spine, making your back arch as his mouth tended to the throbbing ache coming from your wet flower._

_“Yes.” His response was soft, barely above the hiss of a whisper, but you heard it anyway. The dim glow of fire from the hearth made his spectacles shine; a flash of white broke the darkness where he sat, grinning. “You **belong** to me. You were **mine** the moment I laid my eyes on you. And I…”_

_He paused, falling silent as his gloved palms, all ten of his fingers gripped a hold of your hips, painfully. You breathed a hiss through a set jaw and clenched teeth; it hurt, and he knew it did. You knew he wouldn’t— **didn’t—** care if it did or not, since pain or pleasure given to you by him was acceptable. To say you wouldn’t be surprised to see bruises dotting your hips, your shoulders, and your neck come tomorrow would be putting it lightly. _

_“…I will burn in Hell before I ever let another man have you.”_

You hear a wet suck; you feel it between your thighs, slowly. Is it in your memories, your wonderfully terrible memories of the life you once had shared with your husband? Or is it being done by the moist lips—the mouth you _know_ is covered in your slick—owned by the detestable demon? Is a literal phantom the one who’s pleasing you right now? Or is it the hopeless fool you’ve convinced to follow you upstairs? You aren’t sure; honestly, you don’t _want_ to be sure.

But there is one thing you are certain of. The memories that you find a strange comfort in are slowly, but surely, winning over the weak grasp reality has on you. You know this because of several things: the spectre-like sensation of two leathery palms and ten gloved fingers stroking your hot, shivering flesh is shockingly real; the ghostly feeling of a few short, slow, and well-practised licks tending to your aching cunt is like voodoo working its magic on your body; the laugh that tickles your wet hole reverberates through you like an electric current, making you keen as your back arches painfully, delightfully.

“Ah…”

A moan slips past your lips, not at all bashful nor ashamed of your current state; a second mewl is quick to shadow it, tumbling off of your tongue as it licks your mouth, blessing it with proper moisture. You don’t even care that the nameless demon is doing a poor and messy job of eating you out. All you truly care about is releasing the tension that’s long since coiled up inside you, the tension that is now threatening to burst from your warm insides like a coiled spring. The nobody fiend is a sloppy eater to be sure, and his abhorrent table manners compliment his disgusting self.

_Alistair was slow, but thorough…_

That thought makes your eyes flutter open, struggling to think despite the fog of lust clogging your thoughts. You inhale deeply; air leaves you in a slow, careful exhale. Why did you think about _that_? Moreover, why are you thinking about _him_ now, of all times?

_I suppose it doesn’t matter; he isn’t even here._

You breathe out a noise that’s a mix of a sigh and a purr, fingers clutching fistfuls of the sheets beneath you. You grip them so hard that your knuckles blanch, your fingernails reaping through the cotton material. You pant, chest heaving as you roll your hips; you’re practically rutting into the demon’s mouth.

_“Easy, darlin’. Easy… We have all night and it is forever young; there’s no need to rush, is there?”_

The malicious teasing filters through your lust-crazed mind, and you can’t find it within yourself to care that a phantom, a literal ghost, is the one who’s showering you in pleasure while bestowing pain on your body. The scar on your thigh flares up without warning, making you exhale a hiss past your teeth.

You swear you can feel the edge of the heated knife digging into your skin; you swear you can feel his face, feel his mouth buried between your thighs. The starting line of agony and the finishing point of ecstasy blurs until, sadly, you can’t distinguish from one or the other.

_“You’re trembling… What’s causing it, I wonder?”_

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him, _damn_ _him_ , **_damn him!_** He’s haunting you and he’s not even here right now. Tension possesses you; a jolt of irritation is quick to shadow the unease. You don’t know whether to be grateful or curse the bubble of pleasure building up inside you, just waiting to pop any moment now, but… Judging that your body’s reaction is to shudder from head to toe, your nails digging into the sheets hard enough that you feel them pinching into your palms, surely leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake, it’s focusing more on the dubious gratitude.

_“Mine…”_

The word is like a shot being fired, ricocheting off the walls of your mind. There’s a darkness that the hellish night sky can’t hope to match in that single word, oh yes, and there’s a crystal clear note of possessiveness in his voice as he speaks to you.

_“W-What?”_

In your mind, your past self’s voice—your _human self’s_ voice—breathlessly throws that stuttered retort back at him. You remember his response and even now, it chills you to your core, but it’s the sick thrill that takes you aback the most.

_Five fingers. A palm. The feeling of leather. That was the vice that circled your throat; that was how he chose to react. You breathed a gasp, shocked and confused, eyes widening and jaw going slack._

_“Al-Alistair—”_

_“ **Mine**.”_

_He all but growled the word in your soaked hole, watching with a morose interest as you exhaled sharply, wheezing out a breath that ended in his name. You swallowed; rather, you tried to. It was a difficult thing to accomplish, what with the hand locked around your throat and all._

You feel it. The warmth, the pressure building, moulding to become one in the pit of your miserable existence as your toes curl slowly, painfully. Your orgasm is going to wash over you whether you want it to or not. The ghastly image of the nameless demon between your legs is mentally replaced by the devilish visage of a smiling brunet man, dark eyes twinkling maliciously behind his cheaters.

_“Chér…”_

The sultry coo in your mind is like a siren’s call, luring you to your doom, leaving you to crash at the reef while cackling at your stupidity all the while. You swallow, reeling, gasping for sweet oxygen as needles of ecstasy languidly prick at the curve of your spine, making your back arch off the sheets that are now slick with your sweat and juices.

_A suck, a lick, a laugh. What a dreadfully lovely combo his lips gave you._

Even now you can swear to Lilith herself that you can feel the rush of hot air his lips, Alistair’s lips, blessed your warm and wet walls with when he giggles.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?”

_“You know you’re mine, don’t you? Your body seems to know who owns it…”_

“Mmm, yeah.” It’s a wonder that your tongue isn’t lolling out of your mouth by now. You can’t find it within you to care to question who you’re replying to: the nobody fiend or the voice in your head.

_“Why don’t you be my good little darling…” Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. The rhythm of the hand coiled around your neck, wrapped in a black glove, matched the pace his lips, tongue and teeth peppered the inside of your legs with kisses, sucks, and leaving a bouquet of bruises on your skin._

_The knife just kept on digging deeper into your thigh, resulting in lines of crimson to slide down your flesh._

_“And show me how far you’ve fallen?”_

You swallow, sucking in a deep breath as the blush painting your cheeks deepens. The firestorm circulates through you, making you quake from head to toe. You keen, practically purring as you cease rutting into the demon’s— _Alistair’s?_ —mouth, laying where you are as your eyes roll back, so far back that you think you see the goop that’s your brain.

_“Show me, darlin’. You don’t need to hide that darkness inside of you from me…”_

“Mmm… Fuck, _fuck_ , **fuck**! Gonna, gonna, gonna… Please, _please_ , **please** —”

_“Language, ma biche. But since you asked me so nicely…”_

A suck coupled with a kiss and oh yes, a violent squeeze and your flesh being cut is your undoing. White flashes in your vision; a kiss of wet warmth trickles down your eyes. You ride the high that washes over you like a wave of water, body tensing up but loosening all at once. You exhale a low, drawn out sigh as you float down from your infernal cloud, uncurling your now sore fingers; they’ve been gripping the sheets this entire time.

“Told you I could make ya scream.”

The haughty voice of the demon makes you crack your eyes open. There he is between your legs, lips coated in your slick, smiling at you like he _knows everything_ …

It all happens in a blur. The demon is between your legs one moment, as smug as he pleases. The next he’s beneath you, pinned to the bed. You ignore everything. You ignore that your thighs are coated in your juices, staining the covers, his mouth and fingers. You ignore that he’s an amusing mix of angry, confused, and is that _fear_ you see?

You lean in closer, smiling dreamily as you tilt your head off to the side. Your hair brushes against your cheek, your neck, smiling without a care in the world.

“What? You don’t like it when a woman tops you?” you ask, giggling as if your punchline is the most funny joke ever told in the burning underworld.

He, on the other hand, is far from amused. He growls, his nails shifting to claws as his eyes blaze with an infernal hue—only for it to falter as he stares, almost sheepishly, up at you as you betray a teasing hint of your full demon form. You feel your eyes blazing, lips curling back as drool spills from your mouth. For a moment and only a moment, fur lines your shoulders, your arms before it dissipates.

_This one isn’t even worth the effort to go all-out on… The only use he’s good for is to whet my appetite._

“That isn’t… Look, you stupid bitch! You don’t want to fuck with me. I’ll—”

“Mm, but _baby_ ,” You croon the title of faux affection he gave you earlier, tossing it right back at him. However, unlike when he addressed you in such a way, your voice is thick with the want to _hurt_ , tickled with the itch to _kill_ , and choked to the brim with nothing but the urge to _feed_ on this fool’s blood. Your hand remains pressed to his throat, making sure that your thumb is pressing down on his windpipe, your fingernail—that is now a claw—digging its tapered end into his skin oh so gently; a warning. “Haven’t I been a _good girl_ for you tonight? And good girls should be rewarded for a job well done, right?”

“I… I—”

“Hush now, sugar,” You simper, speaking to him as though he is a mischievous child about to be punished. Or rather, it would sound like you’re upset with him by untrained ears, but you’re feeling like a cat that has just caught a mouse sneaking around its den. Hell, you even feel a telltale purr tickling the back of your throat as you smile thinly down at your crappy one-night-stand-turned-prey, proudly displaying a teasing hint of your fangs as they form. There’s a flash of pink as your tongue peeks out to lick at your lips; the action is shameless. _You’re_ shameless.

“I _tricked_ you, silly little demon. A few wanton whispers and your miserable life was in the palms of my hands; why, you practically _gave it_ to me! And now you’re going to be killed by me… How unfortunate for you.”

You lean down, lips brushing the sweaty skin of his neck, not at all minding the touch of salt that his flesh leaves on your mouth. You inhale, voicing something that’s a cross between a moan and a growl of approval.

“I do so love it when morsels like you shiver…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this is another musing I enjoyed cackling about with my bestie, Lafrenze; it’s never a dull moment when we brainstorm.


	5. Hunt -Teaser-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always does enjoy a good chase.
> 
> But only when _you’re_ the one he’s pursuing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the short teaser, but I hope to have a teaser for _Purge_ up shortly.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy the spook fest this will inevitably become, dear reader.

Your legs ache and your lungs are burning, crying out for precious oxygen as you run down the various twists and turns of the corridors. For a moment it occurs to you to wonder, in the midst of the roller coaster of thoughts circulating through your mind, just how long you’ve been here.

_It’s been too long!_

That’s what your mind spits back as you take a sharp right, nearly colliding with the bust of a deer’s head hanging on the wall. You swallow, irises bouncing erratically, zeroing in on unimportant little details: how its eyes seem to shine in the darkness; how its fur seems as glossy as it did in life; how its glassy gaze seems like it’s fixed on you, and only you.

Then, a terrifying thought hits your brain like an electric current.

Is it watching you? Worse, is _he_ watching **_you_ **through the empty eyes of the taxidermy?

The notion by itself is enough to make you start running again. Honestly, you should have given way more thought into your hasty flight. You should have memorized the layout of this damn cabin better. You should have waited until _he_ was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. You should have kept your mouth shut; you should have played your part, feigning that he had broken your mind and spirit for a second time.

You shouldn’t have started running like a bat out of Hell—ironic, given your demon form—until you were absolutely, positively _sure_ that hedidn’t have his watchful eyes, his eternal smile focused on you, but… But you are beyond desperate right now; you just want to get out of here! You have to find the exit, you _have to_ ; you can’t stay in this nuthouse any longer!

 _There must be an exit somewhere! It’s a cabin!_ Your mind hisses, breathing a fresh hit of rationality into your frazzled brain. _There **must be** a way out **somewhere!**_

If you can’t reach the entrance, then you’ll find the back door, a side door and, if worse becomes more-so, you’ll break a window and slip outside that way.

“Oh darling, it’s charming how you think you can hide from me. In _my_ house.”


End file.
